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on.’
‘Unlikely, I have to say,’ said Octavia coolly, ‘this is a
business, you know. But we could talk. It sounds a
wonderful idea, your fun day, and you’ll find it very
productive. We did something similar at Brooklands a year
or so ago. Raised over a hundred thousand for Foothold,
one of our charities. Children with arthritis. I got one of the
big drug companies to come in with lots of lovely
sponsorship money.’
‘Oh, really?’ Interest flashed briefly into the drawling
voice.
‘Yes. So if you did think it might be worth talking—’
‘But you wouldn’t do it for free? For old times’ sake?’
‘Lauren, I couldn’t. Sorry.’
‘Well, we’ll think about it. I must say it seems a bit wrong
- for a business to be making money out of
charities.’
Octavia had had this argument so many times before, she
moved smoothly into her automatic defence of it. ‘Lauren,
you know as well as I do a charity’s books have to balance.
It’s an expensive business running a charity. We do, in the
long run, make it more cost-effective.’
‘Yes, yes, I know that’s the argument,’ said Lauren
dismissively. ‘Anyway, as I say, we may ring you. I must go
now, Octavia. Off to the Harbour Club. Bye.’
‘Bitch,’ said Octavia aloud as she put the phone down.
Tom Fleming forgot about telephoning his father-in-law
until he was in the middle of a very complicated
conversation over lunch. Most of his meals were accompanied
by complicated conversations, indeed every meal he ate during the week was a working occasion. His day began over breakfast, either at a hotel or in a boardroom,
proceeded to lunch, almost always at the Connaught or the
Savoy or the Ritz, and thence to dinner, often after the
theatre or the opera, at some other high-profile eaterie:
Bibendum, Quaglino’s, the Mirabelle. He was never
relaxed, always watchful, platefuls of perfectly prepared,
immensely expensive food being placed before him and
then removed again, sometimes half eaten, sometimes still
less; endless glasses of fine clarets, perfectly chilled champagnes
poured and not consumed while he and his
colleagues and his guests or his hosts stalked one another in
their ceaseless and complex battle for influence.
Tom ran a public affairs consultancy, known in the trade
as a lobby shop. People he met at parties, outside the
business, were always asking him exactly, what he did, and it
always surprised him how hard it was to explain to them.
‘It’s not quite politics and much more fun,’ he would say.
‘It’s all about persuading people, simple as that. Persuading
the clients what to do, and how to do it, insofar as it affects,
and is affected by, politics. And persuading others my clients
are right.’ He would then give them his famously charming
and engaging smile, and refuse to say any more. ‘Otherwise
I shall become boring. And then Octavia will be cross.’
The presentation folder of Fleming Cotterill (glossy, fat,
expensive) went a little further, describing itself as above all
‘seeking to get a company’s case across to people, whether
in Westminster, Whitehall or out there on the Clapham
Omnibus’.
Fleming Cotterill was seven years old, hugely successful,
high profile. Tom and his co-director Aubrey Cotterill had
founded it six years earlier, having formed a splinter group
from another very well-established consultancy; they were
the senior directors and biggest shareholders and there were
now three other directors. The early days had been — as
Tom described it when he had had a few glasses of wine too
many — ‘good for the bowels: we’d both taken out
enormous second mortgages and bank loans. It had to work.’
For the first few months it looked as if it wouldn’t; they
had a couple of clients but not nearly enough to meet their
overheads (small but glossy office in Westminster, much
expensive entertaining, and the high interest rates of the
early
‘Unlikely, I have to say,’ said Octavia coolly, ‘this is a
business, you know. But we could talk. It sounds a
wonderful idea, your fun day, and you’ll find it very
productive. We did something similar at Brooklands a year
or so ago. Raised over a hundred thousand for Foothold,
one of our charities. Children with arthritis. I got one of the
big drug companies to come in with lots of lovely
sponsorship money.’
‘Oh, really?’ Interest flashed briefly into the drawling
voice.
‘Yes. So if you did think it might be worth talking—’
‘But you wouldn’t do it for free? For old times’ sake?’
‘Lauren, I couldn’t. Sorry.’
‘Well, we’ll think about it. I must say it seems a bit wrong
- for a business to be making money out of
charities.’
Octavia had had this argument so many times before, she
moved smoothly into her automatic defence of it. ‘Lauren,
you know as well as I do a charity’s books have to balance.
It’s an expensive business running a charity. We do, in the
long run, make it more cost-effective.’
‘Yes, yes, I know that’s the argument,’ said Lauren
dismissively. ‘Anyway, as I say, we may ring you. I must go
now, Octavia. Off to the Harbour Club. Bye.’
‘Bitch,’ said Octavia aloud as she put the phone down.
Tom Fleming forgot about telephoning his father-in-law
until he was in the middle of a very complicated
conversation over lunch. Most of his meals were accompanied
by complicated conversations, indeed every meal he ate during the week was a working occasion. His day began over breakfast, either at a hotel or in a boardroom,
proceeded to lunch, almost always at the Connaught or the
Savoy or the Ritz, and thence to dinner, often after the
theatre or the opera, at some other high-profile eaterie:
Bibendum, Quaglino’s, the Mirabelle. He was never
relaxed, always watchful, platefuls of perfectly prepared,
immensely expensive food being placed before him and
then removed again, sometimes half eaten, sometimes still
less; endless glasses of fine clarets, perfectly chilled champagnes
poured and not consumed while he and his
colleagues and his guests or his hosts stalked one another in
their ceaseless and complex battle for influence.
Tom ran a public affairs consultancy, known in the trade
as a lobby shop. People he met at parties, outside the
business, were always asking him exactly, what he did, and it
always surprised him how hard it was to explain to them.
‘It’s not quite politics and much more fun,’ he would say.
‘It’s all about persuading people, simple as that. Persuading
the clients what to do, and how to do it, insofar as it affects,
and is affected by, politics. And persuading others my clients
are right.’ He would then give them his famously charming
and engaging smile, and refuse to say any more. ‘Otherwise
I shall become boring. And then Octavia will be cross.’
The presentation folder of Fleming Cotterill (glossy, fat,
expensive) went a little further, describing itself as above all
‘seeking to get a company’s case across to people, whether
in Westminster, Whitehall or out there on the Clapham
Omnibus’.
Fleming Cotterill was seven years old, hugely successful,
high profile. Tom and his co-director Aubrey Cotterill had
founded it six years earlier, having formed a splinter group
from another very well-established consultancy; they were
the senior directors and biggest shareholders and there were
now three other directors. The early days had been — as
Tom described it when he had had a few glasses of wine too
many — ‘good for the bowels: we’d both taken out
enormous second mortgages and bank loans. It had to work.’
For the first few months it looked as if it wouldn’t; they
had a couple of clients but not nearly enough to meet their
overheads (small but glossy office in Westminster, much
expensive entertaining, and the high interest rates of the
early
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